oxytocin
by windsilk
Summary: I'll get away and dream, dream of you. —Sasuke/Sakura.
1. anatomy

**—**

**—**

**anatomy  
**[take flight on the wind of wishing you were here; I'll be fine, I'll be fine, _I'll be fine_]

* * *

She is warm.

It is something his hands know intimately well.

Sasuke is not a poet, but he knows if he had the patience, knows if he found the peace of mind, he could describe the hard muscle of her upper arms, the bubbling flesh, the press of her face against the grooves of his shoulder blades, the call of his name. Her arms around his chest, the desperate, tangible caress of her voice.

No one, he thinks, has ever said his name quite like that.

He knows he could describe the exact curvature of the shape of her neck, pulse fast under his grip.

The weight of her, heavier every time he sees her. The way her skin stretches over her knuckles, the brilliant warmth of her eyes, the burning agony that catches and falls from her eyelashes.

He knows this, but when his hand plunges into her chest, through the heart that he has been told time and time again beats for him, he somehow does not expect for it to feel like this.

Her eyes are locked with his, and there's something in them that feels like a betrayal, like a weakness, but he ignores it for the whisper in his mind that sounds something like paradoxical, unquenched need is telling him that_ this is the only way_.

His life has never been enough of a bedtime story to deserve the things she has set out on a platter for him—a plate of sliced apples or her heart.

He can feel his hand pass through phantom veins and tissue, feel her breath catch in her throat, the choking of a mouth around something that he refuses to try and comprehend…and he did not expect this.

But she is already swaying backwards, and he cannot do anything but watch it happen. He cannot cave to the instinctive tug of the muscles in his forearms, cannot fall prey to the want that wants him to cradle her from the fall.

He has always been the one to catch her, and this time it is he who pushed. This time, he's watching her collapse on the ground, her pink hair fanning around her, her eyelids slipping shut to cover the searing pain in her green eyes.

He did not expect this.

He did not expect her to feel like the personification of her lips wrapping around the words _I love you_.

He did not expect it to feel like something he'd lost before he'd even lost all of his teeth; he did not expect it to feel like coming home. But more than all that, he did not expect to want it so badly, to want to feel like still, there was somewhere where he belonged.

His fingers tremble, and turning away is one of the hardest things he knows he has ever done.

He can still hear the echoes in his ears, and his eyes no longer miss anything. _There was nothing I could have done for you, but still, I care about you more than I can bear. _

It doesn't matter anymore, he thinks. She's in the past, now,—she _has_ to be—and he's already walking away.

—

—

_tbc_


	2. physiology

**—**

**—**

**physiology  
**[fading light like a star whose light has been gone for years]

* * *

He is warm.

This should be a logical, unsurprising conclusion. She is not lovelorn enough to have forgotten that the things she has learned in her years of medicine.

She knows, for instance, that the human hand has twenty seven bones, and she knows that in a world where all science were equal, it should never have been able to pass through her rib cage and brush along the edges of her heart—at least, not without fatal injury.

And yet, his hand is wrist deep inside of her, and this is how she confirms her suspicions: everything about them in some way has always defied logic.

She can feel, somehow, his knuckles and blood crusted nails like liquid lightning oozing into her bloodstream, and when her eyes refocus on his mismatched ones, she knows that the filmy look in them is a look of betrayal.

Not of her, but of himself.

Even still, having tears tracked down her cheeks and slowly fading into what she knows is a genjutsu, she can't help but love him.

Science, she is sure, would have turned her out of the club long ago if it had any say in the matter. She thinks—no, she knows—that she is_ so fucking stupid. _

But she cannot stop wearing her heart on her sleeve, and despite the fact that one has been torn off, it's still there, clinging to her skin and burned into her body. This love is the makeup of her entire being, and even if she is filled with sorrow, she cannot regret this.

It has, after all, made her into what she is today.

His hand withdraws from her chest cavity, and the sky is a blissful blue that it had absolutely no right to be. His eyes are still on her, and whatever invisible contract about unspoken words they had had all these years has been broken.

He has used her.

He has used his glance, the look in his eyes, leveraged the love that feels so suffocating in order to subdue her, and she is sure her last moments before unconsciousness have filled her gaze with utter anguish.

She had forgotten over the years that loving him was like going to war, that just being near him was a textbook's worth of need.

No science, she is sure, can explain how utterly foolish she is.

He is so beautiful.

His words do not stop looping through the angles of her ear drum, and she thinks that this is too much for her.

_So damn annoying_.

But she is already hitting the ground, she is already falling into a dream state, and she wonders if any nightmare could ever compare to her reality.

—

—

_fin_

* * *

**notes**: written for 693; repost from my tumblr. everything hurts and I'm in heaven.


End file.
